


In which Gil is a busy boy

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: Poison in Paris [9]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Paris hijinks, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 15:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: Who has time for a social life?





	In which Gil is a busy boy

A triumph, Professor Wollstonecraft had said. Disturbing use of biochemical science, according to Professor Otten. Don’t push your luck, said the Master of Paris. Bangladesh DuPree had only one comment: let’s party. 

Against his better judgment, Gil went along with the Captain’s assessment. He had a full-contact hypothesis defense in the morning, so staying out late probably made for a terrible idea. DuPree told him not to be such a Klaus, a remark which had him out the door and down the street before it occurred to him that she had manipulated him. Oh, well. It was best that she win sometimes. 

Gil smiled at everyone as they strolled down the street, DuPree chattering away at his elbow. Her cheery disposition should worry him. He should wonder who she had perforated lately. Instead, he nodded along, enjoying the warm glow of Science well done. 

DuPree pushed the door open ahead of them and dragged him into L'Endroit Habituel, where a few people called out greetings… to DuPree, Gil noticed with some alarm. How in the world did she have time to run about making friends?

Warwick already sat at the bar, and he waved them over to join him. With a whoop, DuPree bounded across the worn oak floor to throw an arm around his shoulders. “You’re looking good, you scoundrel.” She pinched his cheek. “How’s the new spine?”

Gil sighed. “I’m sure it would be better without you hanging upon it.” He slouched onto the stool beside Warwick. “Sorry,” he muttered with a meaningful glance at the arm over Warwick’s shoulder. 

Warwick gestured, and a glass of absinthe appeared before Gil. “Thank you,” he said, possibly for the thousandth time. 

“Well, it’s not—Hey!” Gil clapped a hand over Warwick’s coffee cup as DuPree reached to pour something into it. “No alcohol until tomorrow.”

“Spoilsport,” the Captain muttered. 

Warwick laughed at them both. “You have a kind heart,” he said to Gil. “I have no idea how you attract the company of miscreants such as us.”

DuPree took that as a compliment. “It’s over, Gil. This is my new best friend.” She leaned all the harder on Warwick’s new spine. Gil cringed. 

“I encountered a reprobate early in life. I think it warped me.” He meant the remark to be flippant, but somehow Gil stung himself with his own words. He remembered a swift smile and a ready laugh, both of which had grown sharp edges. Snatching up his absinthe, Gil downed it in one gulp. It really did nothing for the ache of nostalgia. 

Warwick gestured, and another glass of absinthe replaced the first. “Regardless,” he said, “I'm—”

A small outburst from the near corner drowned out the rest of Warwick’s words. There, a cluster of students in exploration gear waxed Cartographic, leaping up on their chairs, waving maps and diagrams around, and all shouting over each other. Gil sipped his absinthe and strained his ears to sort out what the excitement was about. Something beneath the catacombs. Something big, from the sound of it. Gil itched to join them, but his last expedition beneath Paris had earned a bounty on his head from the Arguron king and another week on academic probation. It was probably best not to interfere. 

“Isn’t that right?” DuPree pounced on him with a friendly punch, startling him free of thoughts that involved goggles and dust masks and a goodly amount of navigational instruments. Gil slouched a little away from her. 

“Strictly on principle, I refuse to agree with you.”

Warwick laughed. Another absinthe arrived. 

“Shall I tell Sturmvoraus that you defended his good name?” Warwick teased. 

“He’d never believe such a thing.” Gil swirled his latest glass of absinthe and gulped it down before all the sugar had dissolved. He had no right to resent Tarvek’s distrust of him. And yet…

Frowning, Gil peered into his empty glass. He ignored Warwick’s remark about Colette and her opinions regarding the personal lives of others. He missed DuPree’s reply. Holding the glass up to the light, he tilted it and peered at the greenish sugar crystals clinging to the side of it. 

“You’re not drunk already.” Warwick’s words landed flat, a statement rather than a question. 

DuPree prodded him with one finger. “Stop playing the lightweight.”

Frowning, Gil shook his head. “Something's… off.” He rolled the aftertaste of the absinthe across his brain, trying to work out which note was wrong. 

DuPree snatched the glass from his hand. “ _Now_  who’s trying to kill you?” 

Gil rolled his eyes. “You say that like I should know—Don’t do that!” he yelped, too late to stop her from touching the tip of her tongue to the inside of the glass. 

DuPree threw the glass at him in disgust. “All that noise over a little extra wormwood?” She turned to Warwick. “Isn’t it sad when the assassins stop trying?”

Wormwood. Gil drummed his fingertips against the glass, which he had caught. “That dose shouldn’t kill… well, most anyone in here,” he muttered, eyeing the crowd of Sparks and healthy students. “Except you.” His gaze sharpened as he turned it upon Warwick. Their successful procedure would have weakened him enough for a small dose of wormwood to do significant damage. 

“ _And_  you’re buying,” DuPree said, leaning on Warwick’s shoulder. She beamed at him. “Someone wants you dead.”

“Captain.”

She turned her sunny smile on Gil. “Whatever it is, absolutely not.”

“Wrong answer.” Gil stood up. “Let go of my research subject. We’re going hunting.”

DuPree gave him a wary stare. “Messy hunting?”

Gil glanced at Warwick. A frail frame hid under all those mismatched layers of clothing, a damaged body they both worked hard to repair. No one would interfere with his work. “ _If_  you catch our poisoner first, then yes. As messy as you like.”

With a whoop of pure joy, Bangladesh DuPree bolted for the door. Gil looked to Warwick one more time, and he gave a slow nod. 

_You will be fine. I promise._

Gil followed DuPree out into the cool of the evening. Of course he had to find the poisoner first. He had questions. He could have taken a moment to question the staff at L'Endroit Habituel, but the Captain’s pursuit instincts were rarely wrong, a fact she liked to boast about at inexhaustible length. Gil started after her, narrowly missed colliding with a small knot of pedestrians, then paused and doubled back. 

“You!” Reaching into the cluster of strolling bystanders, Gil hauled Tarvek out by the collar. 

“I’m minding my business!”

“Sure, and all of their business as well. It’s not important!” Gil gave Tarvek a little shake. “Listen,” he said, dropping his voice to a growl. “Warwick is in there. Someone tried to poison him—”

“I didn't—”

“I  _know_.” Gil shook him again. “Keep an eye on him.” He propelled Tarvek toward L'Endroit Habituel. Tarvek stumbled, righted himself, and glanced over his shoulder. 

“He deserves better than the two of us, you know,” he said. 

“Just go!”

With that, Gil charged off down the street. Warwick would be safe enough, and he still might catch the poisoner before DuPree did. He grinned a mad little grin. In the end, it would be a good day’s work.


End file.
